


Revelations

by terma_archivist



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-01-01
Updated: 2002-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:49:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26535373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terma_archivist/pseuds/terma_archivist
Summary: Duncan and Methos move from point A to point C, via point B. Smut is involved
Relationships: Duncan MacLeod/Methos (Highlander)
Kudos: 3
Collections: TER/MA





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alicettlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [TER/MA](https://fanlore.org/wiki/TER/MA) and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2019. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the TER/MA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/terma/profile).  
> Comments: Graphic homosexual adult content, some power disparity, bad words. Disclaimer: The characters in this story are still not mine, which just goes to show you how smart some people are. This material may not be copied or distributed without permission. Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission. Author's Note: This story was written as a naughty little hello gift to the RSM. You can't blame them, though. This was actually co-authored by the Cimmerians: Mairead and Aristide (feel free to blame them). You can consider this as the lightest Mairead ever, or the darkest Aristide, whichever floats your boat. Acknowledgements: This is dedicated with great enthusiasm and gratitude to Killa for services beautifully rendered, and offered with a tip o' the hat to JaC, in apology for a big old weenie mistake.

  
**Revelations  
by Mairead Triste**

  
And so there came a night, a night when all the options and evasions and sublimations had been gone through, explored and canvassed and worn threadbare through too much use, and Duncan finally found no other avenue, nothing else for it except to take Methos to himself and to bed, to choke off the flow of sarcastic and pointed words at the source by putting his own two cents in, his own tongue in, his own body in; keeping them from tearing at each other verbally by upping the ante to actual flesh. 

And it worked. For a while... 

* * *

"I don't know what to tell you, Methos. I thought it was the right thing to do. I was wrong." 

Very familiar, this feeling of something being hard as hell to say, but nevertheless having to be said. Familiar, but still unpleasant. Duncan faced Methos squarely, disallowing his own urges to turn away, to somehow soften the blow of his words. That would be cowardly. 

Methos only stared at him mildly from the depths of the armchair, legs crossed and fingers steepled together—the world's sweatiest analyst. During their spar downstairs Methos had yielded to him again and again; but victory was hollow when every success meant Methos breathing a little faster, staring at him with eyes a little warmer, time after time of blade against a slender neck that only led to that 'do me here and do me now, Highlander' look. It had been the final straw... but now, of course, that look was nowhere in evidence. Now there was only this gentle, almost polite, utterly silent curiosity. Maddening. 

"Methos, did you hear me?" Duncan heard his own impatience in the dark growl of his words, but he felt helpless to stop it. "Are you listening? Conversation is not a spectator sport, you know—" 

"Oh, did you want to have a conversation? Forgive my confusion, Mac; I was under the impression that you wanted to toss me out on my arse and have done with it. I was simply waiting for you to be finished." 

Anger vanished in the face of those calm, decided words, giving way to perplexity within the space of a single heartbeat. "You're not going to... argue with me about this?" He clamped his lips shut abruptly—he sounded almost _disappointed_ , damn it—as if he didn't know his own mind. 

Methos shifted within the confines of the armchair, smiling gently in a rather unnerving way. "Why would I argue with you, MacLeod? You're absolutely correct." 

Perplexity deepened, and Duncan maintained his own silence by a ruthless act of will, knowing that if he allowed himself to speak he would probably stammer. 

"You said that you started this little affair between us for the wrong reasons. You said that you wanted to find some way for us to get closer, and all it's done is drive us further apart. You said that we'd given it a fair shot, and then you said several very mollifying and complimentary things which you probably didn't mean, but which I'm willing to accept as truth nevertheless." Methos blinked, a brief interlude in the thread of focus that Duncan felt like a breath of cool air over his skin. "I see no reason to argue with you about any of that, Mac; as far as I'm concerned, you're completely right, and you put it very well." 

Duncan hadn't realized until right now how very tense he'd wound himself in preparation for this debate. Invisible hands seemed to be letting go of various and sundry muscle groups, and one deep breath banished the weight that had been cramping his ribs. "I thought you'd be angry, Methos; I mean—well, at least... I thought... it looked to me like you were having fun—" 

Something dark and wholly intemperate flashed in Methos' eyes, and Duncan found that his own words vanished as every bit of the anxiety he'd just let go of came flooding back all in an instant, whispering with that old, trained voice that he _knew_ better than to let his guard down like that... 

"Fun? Of course I've been having fun, you idiot." Methos somehow managed to sound simultaneously fond and contemptuous, an uneasy combination that made Duncan's head pound. "I've been having the time of my life, to be perfectly frank; and watching you sweat it out and wondering when you were going to work yourself up to the sticking point has only made it better." The smile became a grin, slow and knowing; it made his skin tingle. "You're terribly entertaining when you're conflicted, Highlander; which means you're downright riveting about ninety-eight percent of the time. I have, in the course of this brief and torrid period of being on the receiving end of all that stoically repressed lust, been having a ball. Pardon the pun." 

Duncan frowned, puzzling. That seemed like incomprehensible behavior, even for Methos. "You mean to say that you knew perfectly well that I wasn't happy, that I've been regretting... this, and you haven't said anything?" Why did that feel like such a betrayal? After all, what did he... what could he expect? 

Not very much, evidently. Methos only nodded, serene and agreeable. "Oh yes. I knew. And more than that, I know _why_ you haven't been happy. I've just been waiting for you to figure it out for yourself—after all, I'm not your Teacher, MacLeod; praises be to whatever powers there are." 

Duncan drew himself up, standing as straight as possible, relying on his dignity to see him through this moment of feeling strangely imperiled. "I just told you why I haven't been happy, Methos. My experience with men is... limited. I thought I could do this... that I could do this with you; that maybe a relationship with you would be different—" 

"Wait a minute." The old man was the picture of cautious patience, forestalling him with one raised hand. "By all means, Mac, let's get this out in detail—we don't want another misunderstanding on our hands, do we?" Now Methos was apparently _amused_ , wry good humor that grated on Duncan's nerves. "Your experience with men _is_ limited—to a very long time ago when you were a splendid and undisciplined lout, to those moments when you were so drunk you couldn't see straight, and to those few instances when you happened to meet up with somebody who didn't threaten your macho self-image by giving you a quick stroke." 

It seemed to Duncan that he should expostulate, somehow insist on a little less _bluntness_ , but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He felt dizzy. 

"Now you've got me on your hands, and obviously _no_ idea what to do with me, and you have ever-so-carefully made sure to be in absolute and utter control every time you _deign_ to suffer through one of our little liaisons. You've been wonderfully stern and majestic and distant, MacLeod, not to mention totally silent during each encounter, from the first touch on my shoulder all the way through going-to-fetch-a-towel. If I'd wanted a beautiful, polished, indefatigable and well-hung fucktoy to top me, I really couldn't have asked for anything more. Unfortunately, if I'd wanted Duncan MacLeod, I really couldn't have been given anything less." 

He felt the impact of that voice, those words, like a burn of shame upon his skin—the crudity didn't make it any less true, after all, and there was sudden and terrible dismay in realizing that he'd hurt Methos without meaning to. "I know," he admitted quietly—it was the least he could do. "I gave you what I could, Methos; I _tried_ —" 

Methos only waved him to silence, and his voice was gentle. "I know you did. I even appreciate it, at least for amusement value. I am, however, glad that it's over, glad that you're done with your strong-and-silent martyrdom. We can move on now." 

Duncan felt a wary, distant sense of relief, but he didn't quite trust it. He chose his words carefully. "Move on? We're still friends, then?" 

Methos smiled again, shaking his head. The first tentative harbingers of relief slipped away immediately. "'Friends' is not the word I would have chosen, MacLeod. I'll give you a hint: take off your clothes." 

"Methos," he struggled to keep the frustration out of his voice, "I don't think you heard me—I just told you that it's not working, that we need to put an end to this—" 

"It's ended," Methos agreed amicably. "This is something different. Take off your clothes." 

His mouth was unaccountably dry. "Don't be daft," he began reasonably, "I don't know what you're thinking, Methos; but I'm not about to—" 

Methos was up and moving and close against him so quickly that Duncan jumped, and immediately blushed at his own startled fear. "You don't know what I'm thinking, Highlander? Really? Well, by all means, allow me to enlighten you." Methos' eyes were so _intense_ , so much the opposite of the aloof laziness he'd come to expect when they were pressed together like this—they took up the whole of his vision, his world. He swallowed. 

"I'm thinking that you've got about sixty seconds to get out of your clothes, after which I'm going to throw you onto that bed over there, ready or not. After that, you're going to give me everything I ask of you. Then, depending on how that goes, we'll either go out to dinner or order in—I may not be willing to let you out of that bed for a few days, but we'll see." Methos pressed tighter against him, studying his eyes as if looking for evidence of understanding. "Are we quite clear now, Mac? You've got the picture?" 

He got it, all right. He got it, and it made him exquisitely uncomfortable. Fear chilled him, desire heated him—everything seemed to have him caught and pulled in contrary directions. Worst of all, he was aware that he'd started to tremble, that he was practically vibrating in the circle of Methos' arms. He tried to stop it, reached for all things within that were calm and reasonable, but all he could come up with was a weak excuse that said _way_ too much, words that, goddamn it, slipped free from him before he could stop them. "I've... Methos, I've never..." 

Methos had him, had his hair, had him pulled-laid-surrendered back with a dreadful exposure of his throat, and Duncan found himself host to every fear in the world except the fear of falling—Methos' arms were iron around him, Methos' hand was tight and warm and clenched hard at the back of his head, and he knew with dismaying certainty that he would not be allowed to fall. "No, you've never." Teeth fastened abruptly on his neck, and he gasped as his cock went from vaguely stirred to rigid and begging within the space of one breath. "But you're about to." A slow, wet lick up over the center of his throat, and he squirmed—his eyes squeezed shut to deny any evidence of this... this torment. Abruptly he was pulled upright, and his head spun. "Now take off your clothes!" 

Methos helped him, in an unobtrusive and totally disconcerting way. Casual and brief touches to brush his clothing away as an arm or a leg or a buttock was revealed to the chill air, touches that made him achingly aware of his own heat. He _was_ hot—terribly hot, as if in the grip of an unstoppable fever. Likewise his thoughts were fevered, filtered through a haze of unreality—how on earth had Methos known about this? How had Methos sought and found something within him that he himself hadn't even dimly suspected? It made him feel unspeakably young and horribly inexperienced, frightened by the very world around him in a way he hadn't been since childhood. 

When he was naked Methos led him gently but irresistibly towards the bed, touching nothing but his arm, guiding him until he was stretched out on his back, defenseless and laid bare. He wanted to cover himself, and for some obscure and unguessable reason he wanted to _pray_ , and he wanted to leap up off the bed and resume his supremacy and send Methos out of his loft and out of his life forever. 

But he wanted other things more. 

Things he very carefully didn't let himself think about as he watched Methos disrobe with studied, almost solemn grace; things dark and unfamiliar, perverse and electrically compelling surprises in a place he'd thought he'd known very well. His breath remained high in his throat while his head buzzed with a scarcity of oxygen and a surplus of thoughts—and all this time Methos had known of these things, had waited... And now and now and now... if Methos were to reach out towards him right in this moment, reach out and wrap one hand around his length, he'd just spill helplessly... 

Duncan struggled to steady his breathing, to keep his eyes open and fixed when he wanted so very desperately to look anywhere else—because looking at Methos' naked body had _never_ been like this before. Duncan felt himself blushing again, shivering a little and wanting to twist his sweating back against the sheets as he remembered his own perfunctory and detached grappling, his obscure efforts to make what was between them into something safe and sane and comprehensible, something bearable. He shivered harder. What had he been thinking? And who had he been punishing, after all? 

"Methos, I..." Shame made him form the words, shame and the blackly exciting depths of terror and need. He was about to continue when he saw the flushed glow of Methos' reddened erection, thought desperately for a moment to try to remember if he'd ever really _looked_ at it before, and then he had no more words—all he could do was gasp. 

Immediately Methos was there, right there, cupping his face—scarily close and still wide-eyed, and intense enough to make him flinch. "I know," Methos whispered to him, dark and demanding and meltingly compassionate, "I know what you need—I've always known, and I've always wanted to show you. Always wanted you. Always..." 

Duncan floated away on the hypnotic words, so deep in fear that he seemed somehow separate from it, lost within its boundaries as Methos moved in, waded into him and spread him out like a skin drying in the sun, every fiber tightening and stretching against the grain. His breath hissed in sharply, pulling at his chest. 

Never before, this daunting excitement of having Methos over him, holding him tightly—the truth and weight and sweat and _want_ of it exploded in him, and he writhed. Methos descended on him, eyes bright. "I'm going to kiss you. Don't come." 

Slip of tongue on tongue, glide of cock against cock. Soft caresses that flickered back and forth, fast and then slow, building an irrevocable and wicked passion until Duncan had to strain to move away from it—too perfect, too _much_ of what he needed more of. Between each kiss his ears were dinned by his own panting, ragged breathing. He was dizzy, and that was good because it gave him something to think about while parts of him gave way, old existences crumbled to dust in the spotlight heat of new revelations. 

When Methos pulled away Duncan couldn't even whimper—it seemed as pointless as whimpering at the clouds for raining, at the moon for being full. There was nothing for him to do except shudder and sigh as Methos slipped one hand behind his neck and lifted his head, cradling his skull gently while a pillow was wedged beneath. 

Duncan started to hyperventilate as Methos straddled his chest. Away from the soothing trance of Methos' eyes, all he found himself faced with was Methos' erection, which he really _hadn't_ seen quite like this before—he hadn't _stared_ at it in conjunction with the prospect of giving it room in his body. Methos let him do it, knelt over him and watched him and played idly with long strands of his hair in an absently affectionate way—air, he'd need the air, Duncan realized; he'd need the higher levels of oxygen in his blood because Methos was about to... 

"Your mouth," Methos whispered, slow and depraved and strangely reverent, "it's my favorite whore. Exquisite..." 

And then there was no room in him to wonder at himself for his deeds, his thoughts; no room to marvel over his own bright, burning pride at what should have been degradingly offensive. His lips, tongue, and palate tingled, flooded with mouth-watering need as Methos came to him, and taking that flesh into himself was like coming home. 

His breath stuttered. Hot, salt, hard, silken—earthy scent in his nostrils, and all of it making him hungrier by the moment—his hands floated up on their own, settled gently on hips while his neck cramped with the urge to have _more_ , to bring them close enough together that Methos would finish it out and let them complete. His shocked mind imagined in stunning, weakening detail what it would be like to drink Methos down, to give that much pleasure, to have Methos empty himself fully deep inside his throat; and his body responded with an elemental craving that made him curl up, all of everything that he was focused around Methos' cock moving wetly between his lips. 

There was no thought of choking, no shred of fear that he might not be able to breathe. There was only need that spurred him, drove him until Methos was almost lying down on him, until the savage satisfaction of having Methos _all the way inside_ brought him right to the edge—one thrust, one shiver, one moan would do it— 

"Don't... Come..." The passion in Methos' voice didn't do anything to lessen the imperative of command, and before he even knew that he meant to move Duncan abandoned Methos' hips to throttle his own shaft into obedience, straining as far as he could to pull down hard on his throbbing balls. 

"Good—" Duncan could barely hear the other man's words above the pounding of his own heart and the wet noises of his own needy mouth being filled and emptied, over and over, "hold on... keep it... take it... beautiful fucking slut... oh god..." 

Methos used his mouth for a long, dizzy time; long enough to put Duncan somewhere very close to agony as he squeezed his own groin tighter and tighter to stop himself from yielding to what Methos' moans and heated, urgent thrusts demanded of him. The walls of his throat seemed to be inexplicably hard-wired right to his cock, and every push inside him jolted his body with electric sensuality that posed a dire threat to his control. He wanted, _needed_ Methos to come in him, he wanted it to never stop, he _needed_ — 

Abruptly Methos pulled away from him, gasping and shuddering, and Duncan pressed himself into the sheets and let his body struggle for air—it was something to keep him distracted from the desire to just swoop down and grab and get that big, slick cock back in his mouth where it belonged. Not even the thought of what he _knew_ was coming next made any difference—terror and desire and hot, shameful pleasure were inextricable from each other; and all his dazed mind could do was watch himself wallow in it. 

Hands on him, tender and relentless and sweetly cruel, and he barely felt his own acquiescence as he was turned and pushed and guided and shoved deep into the pillows. This was where he was meant to be—obviously, because this is where Methos put him. His legs started to shake as soon as the hands on him drifted away—his ass felt terrifyingly vulnerable like this: open and offered, a profligate and sanctified display with his knees and shoulders quivering against the bed. 

"Wide as you can. Spread for me." It was harder when Methos said these things without touching him. There was no distraction from the part of him that clamored on in his mind about what the _hell_ he thought he was doing, a voice of outrage that left him further stripped, further sunk into a depravity that made him want to squirm, to beg... oh, he didn't want to beg... 

"Please, Methos," he gasped out, his eyes shut tight-tight-tight against everything, his thighs sliding open until no further extension was possible. Worst of all he couldn't stop _rocking_ , couldn't hold still for it but had to move back and forth, seeking, _wanting_ so plainly that it made his entire body burn with humiliation. 

He heard a soft, indulgent chuckle. "You don't get to come yet. Remember that." The words bloomed warm against the skin at the back of his thigh, an intimate shock that immediately became eclipsed by the touch of hot lips-teeth- _tongue_ sliding up... in... up... and... 

"Methos!" It jerked out of him helplessly, and one of his hands darted to his cock to stave off the inevitable with further torture while Methos licked and plunged and nibbled at what he'd just discovered was the tenderest part of him— his back arched, dipped, swayed; but nothing made any difference to the terrible melting fire sucking the soul out of him and _claiming_ him in a way that made him feel like he'd be marked forever. 

Just when he was about to shriek out a warning that he couldn't _possibly_ hold it back any longer Methos released him, and Duncan sighed with relief as those strong and merciless arms came around him, holding him in, keeping him anchored. Methos was a hot, welcome presence down the length of his back, the presence of a promise fulfilled until sharp, tearing heat breached him and he almost _did_ shriek then, at the strangeness and power and deadly implacability of it—he kept it in with an effort, but his eyes were stinging and his body streaming with sweat— 

"Let me hear it, MacLeod," Methos hissed against his shoulder. "I'm fucking your ass and I want to _know_ that you feel me—no prizes for stoicism, remember?" A deep grunt and another shift against his back, and then Duncan blazed anew as he was stretched, stretched further, opened... 

He'd intended words, any words; but all he could clearly articulate were sobs. He clutched at Methos' arms desperately, glad they were here to support him through this, completely insensible of any incongruity. Methos was motionless within him, but even at rest he was a size, force, _presence_ that required a struggle to be accommodated, had to be appeased with offerings of tears and sighs, offerings that Duncan surrendered without thought. 

A soft, gentle kiss dropped on his spine, and Duncan shivered a little as a fleeting ember of heat sparked through him. It gave him the strength to stay still and take it—as painful and terrifying as it might be, it was so very _close_ , so very passionate and— 

Duncan's body leaped, and he uttered a short, sharp cry as Methos moved inside him. Methos groaned, and Duncan was too stunned at the suddenness of pleasure to hold on as Methos pulled his arms away. Cool air down his back now, and a wrenching, twisting sense of something deep inside, something _taking_ him, shifting... 

"Oh yes—please yes—do it—" he could barely recognize his own voice, but apparently _part_ of him knew what it wanted, because despite the pain and trickling tears there was a sense of overflowing joy as strong hands came to settle on his hips, hands he could easily, happily, eagerly give himself over to without fear. Tight on his hips so that he could let go, let everything come up and out of him with a moan that made his whole body shake as Methos took him faster, harder, and everything went from too much to not enough with heart- skipping speed. 

"Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god—" he wasn't making any sense, but he was helpless to stop the words—he was flying, and Methos was deep, deep inside him, terribly deep, pounding into him with stabs of pleasure so acute he almost felt numbed by it. He started to bite into the pillow under his cheek, but then he remembered that Methos _wanted_ his sounds, his voice; so he let the words go free and begged and wailed, and offered up a stream of debased and blissful pleas that came from the core of him. His words rushed over each other as he rocked under Methos' strokes, words that circled down to the direct and pure dialect of need as he ran out of breath, out of resistance, out of his mind—"come in me—come in me—come..." 

Sudden pain as the hands on his hips sank in tight, bruising, _pulling_ , and over him Methos gave voice to a cry of utter triumph, a victory Duncan shared as ecstasy exploded within and without. Using the last of his strength he shoved himself back onto the flesh that pierced him, absorbed it totally, and then spurted hot, burning liquid onto his own stomach and chest, moaning deep in his throat, ceaselessly. Of their own accord his hands reached back, groped blindly until he had Methos in a firm and secure grip, bucking and trembling and grunting and holding him close while everything went grey around the edges, lost and spinning unheeded while his body emptied itself so _completely_ that he thought his heart might stop... 

...And then he was blanketed, warm and crushed under a delicious weight as Methos pushed him flat and collapsed on top of him, shuddering hot breath into his ear that made him tingle. They stayed that way, silently, for a long time, holding and held. Duncan shut his eyes, and kept them shut. 

He could feel many, many thoughts and considerations lying in wait for him, practically jumping up and down on the periphery of his awareness now that he was no longer out of his fucking mind with lust; but in the moment it all seemed too unnecessary for words: an evanescent, immaterial ferment that somehow didn't _deserve_ to be taken seriously, not when doing so would prevent him from being able to feel this way again, and again, and again... 

"Methos," he sighed quietly, just because he could, just because it was one of the words in his heart. The arms around him tightened, and he felt a soft kiss somewhere near the back of his head. 

That gentle touch both comforted and disturbed him—it wasn't fair to Methos, to keep all this inside, as if it would go away if he ignored it. He opened his eyes again, blinking, shame and worry and fear taking up their accustomed places in his unwilling body. He shivered. "Methos—I'm not sure..." his voice was too shaky, and he stopped to clear his throat. It seemed to require an enormous amount of energy. "I don't know what to do—I mean—" 

"Shh, MacLeod," Methos whispered in his ear, and Duncan had the unnerving feeling that Methos knew _exactly_ what he'd been going through. "That's okay— I know what to do. You don't have to worry about it." 

Maybe not, but he couldn't stop himself from reaching to hold Methos' arms, as if he might slip away at any moment. " _You_ know what to do?" he asked hesitantly, not sure if he really wanted an answer to that or not. 

"Umm-hmm..." Light, easy kisses fluttered over his neck, delighting him, dismaying him, and, amazingly enough, turning him on again... "Call for delivery. Definitely. Chinese _and_ Italian. You'll need to keep your strength up, after all, and I'm not letting you out of this bed for at least a week." 

Duncan sighed and closed his eyes again. A quick jab, a lance of pain to the heart at what felt like such _distance_ between them, such unconquerable _distance_ —but even as his eyes started to sting he found himself comforted by Methos' arms around him—not distant at all, really, this man that held and rocked and soothed him with words from the lighter side of things; words meant to provoke and beguile him, to drag him out of himself. It was frustrating, yes; as Methos always was, but—it might be... nice, right now, in this shocked and shaken moment, to just let go, to let himself be beguiled. 

To stay in bed and eat take-out food, which was evidently an ancient and mystical cure-all for what ails the common man. Right. 

Abruptly, Duncan had to press his head hard into the pillows—Methos had escalated the assault, and was now licking his ear in a very deliberate and excessively moist way. Outrageous. He was hard again, and he was _snickering_. He tossed his head until Methos left off, and then sighed once more. "Well, now that we've ended that other thing, and started this completely different thing, does that mean that I get the extra eggroll this time?" 

Methos squeezed him until he was breathless. "No," he replied with simple sadism. "After all, I need to keep my strength up too..." 

"Okay! Eggroll... yours..." Duncan wheezed, gasping when the pressure eased. He started snickering again, imagining various scenarios in which he could get the eggroll anyway, and reached for the phone. 

End. 

* * *

Mairead Triste   
Revelations   
Rating: NC-17   
Characters: DM, M   
Classification: Slash   
Comments: Graphic homosexual adult content, some power disparity, bad words.   
Summary: Duncan and Methos move from point A to point C, via point B. Smut is involved   
Disclaimer: The characters in this story are still not mine, which just goes to show you how smart some people are. This material may not be copied or distributed without permission. Please do not link, publish or post this material without permission.   
Author's Note: This story was written as a naughty little hello gift to the RSM. You can't blame them, though. This was actually co-authored by the Cimmerians: Mairead _and_ Aristide (feel free to blame _them_ ). You can consider this as the lightest Mairead ever, or the darkest Aristide, whichever floats your boat.   
Acknowledgements: This is dedicated with great enthusiasm and gratitude to Killa for services beautifully rendered, and offered with a tip o' the hat to JaC, in apology for a big old weenie mistake.   
Feedback and niblets of outrage can be sent to the Cimmerians at [email removed]   
---


End file.
